"He'll slaughter us; he hates the modern."
"Then the man who looks like Lincoln?"
"He is on our side. But how about the man with the waxed mustache?"
"He'll praise me."
"And slit the playwright's ears. Well, I will not complain. What will the 'Free Lance' do—the one who accepts bribes and cares for his crippled daughter like an angel—what will he do?"
"Well, that depends. Do you know him?"
"I do not, and don't care to. That exhausts the list of the notables; the rest are bright young fellows who are ready to welcome a good thing. Some of them I know slightly, but I do not intend to do one thing, aside from my work, to win their support."
"That is right, of course. Westervelt may take a different course." And in this confident way they approached the day of trial.
Westervelt, watching with uneasy eyes the growing intimacy of his star and her playwright, began to hint his displeasure to Hugh, and at last openly to protest. "What does she mean?" he asked, explosively. "Does she dream of marrying the man? That would be madness! Death! Tell her so, my boy."
Hugh concealed his own anxiety. "Oh, don't worry, they're only good comrades."